"Give me your address," I said,

in my still-broken-after-two-years Spanish, "so that I can mail you cards at Christmas."

The sweet Ecuadorian woman, my quasi surrogate-grandmother here, beamed at me. "Oh yes, and then you can let me know when you get married and I can send you something!"

"Oh, but that won't be for a really, really long time."

"Or not. It'll happen when you least expect it," she said. "It's unavoidable. JUST LIKE DEATH."



MARRIAGE.

JUST. LIKE. DEATH.